


Prometheus

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work, Our Pure King
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Frankenstein - Freeform, Frankenstein AU, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Original Character - Freeform, Original Story - Freeform, our pure king - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 10:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16721535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: the evil it spread like a fever aheadit was night when you died, my fireflywhat could I have said, to raise you from the dead?(lyrics: fourth of july by Sufjan Stevens)-There is a man who has been dead for two weeks in Cain Grant's living room, packed in ice.And he will bring him back.(Frankenstein Alternate Universe of my original story, Our Pure King.)





	1. give my creation life

**Author's Note:**

> wattpad brings me shame only.  
> edit: a playlist for this has been made! https://open.spotify.com/user/owlcitygirl2009/playlist/313FIXA8RRgUfjsYnp6rM4?si=MkxbTqpFRGul6BOxt9FqtQ
> 
> pardon my ugly spotify username i made it in 6th grade.

prologue

-  
october 17th, 1818  
"Cain?" 

The voice echoed down the dark corridor, bouncing off of the red floral wallpaper; the footsteps stopped as the door creaked close. The jangle of iron locks hitting the pine door frame followed.

Cain blew a piece of brown hair from his face, all his attention concentrated onto the red thread that he was attempting to get through the eye of the needle. His fingers trembled slightly, covered by leather gloves. He squinted, staring at each fiber before placing the string on his tongue. 

He wet it successfully, darkening the bright red into oxblood- the fibers had become one once again, stuck together by the saliva. He readied his hand again to thread the needle. 

"Cain?"

"Yes!" He said exasperatedly, setting the thread onto the metal tray beside him. It was sitting on a high pedestal, a glossy wooden side table taken from his bedroom. The needle and thread accompanied metal staples, sutures and scalpels, a speculum... 

"It's me, Gabriel, dear," the voice was very close to the door now, "I have come to call on you, if you'll take a moment for me, away from your experiments...," 

"Of course," Cain huffed, pulling off his gloves, "Please remain outside."

"Cain, what are you doing-?" Gabriel began to try to open the door, but Cain had propped a ginormous armchair against the handle, "Cain!"

"I'm coming, just a moment!" Cain shouted back, untying the blood-stained apron that hung off of him, "God, you're the most impatient bastard-!"

He threw the apron aside, kicking it into the space between his wall and the floor to ceiling shelves he had erected upon his settling into the home. The corner was filled with cobwebs, and he made himself a mental footnote to clean it. This room had to remain spotless for the remainder. 

Cain scooted the chair away and stuck his head out of the door, "Now, what?"

Gabriel did not look pleased in the slightest. He had his arms folded across his chest, and raised his brows, "What are you doing? Messing with bitches again?"

"Yes, and I know how particular you are about blood," Cain said, voice honey coated in a subtle attempt to drive the conversation away from the topic, "I wouldn't want to alarm you, my love-," 

"You take immense joy out of alarming me," Gabriel said, retracting a hand from his stiff stance to push back his trim black hair. 

Cain stepped out from the laboratory and closed the door behind him. He held his hands behind his back, and tried for a pleasant smile, "Perhaps today I feel generous." 

"Did you hear about the body snatching?" 

"No, what of it?" 

"Benjamin Herschkowitz, an Israeli who went to Ingolstadt with us, do you remember? He died of scarlet fever nearly two weeks ago- he was engaged to Miss Winchester?" Gabriel said, "I believe you know of her?" 

Cain fought to keep his mouth in a straight line, his face emotionless, "I may know of them."

"Don't play coy with me." 

"Play coy? I don't know what you're talking about." 

"His grave was robbed last evening, and Cain-," Gabriel's eyes filled with anger, "I know you did it, who else is mad enough to dig up a dead man's body in this town?"

"I have not!" Cain said, "I am still only doing my experiments with canine breeds and chemicals... I am not working with man!" 

"You're a bloody liar!" Gabriel yelled, poking Cain in his chest, "What, have you propped him on your dining table in your laboratory? By God, Cain, what ungodly thing are you doing now?"

"Why on earth are you accusing me of this?" Cain said, grabbing Gabriel's hand and pushing it away. 

"You're the only person in this town that is insane enough to dig up a dead body and do God knows what with it," Gabriel snapped, "And I know how you felt about him. You were sick, going to his door day in and day out, you're lucky you weren't lit like a torch-,"

"Gabriel, please, you're being completely unfair and an inaccurate assumption! I can have male counterparts without having romantic relationships to them, you know, and I'm also fully capable of acquiring and seducing whomsoever I desire."

"As if that's worked in the past." Gabriel tutted. 

"You're here, aren't you?" Cain said, stepping forward a bit, as his teeth settled into his lower lip, "When I came to your house, all those years ago, you did so so pleasantly... and you let me unbutton your overcoat, because you had just arrived home from the post office, or was it the bakery? Yes, I think it was the bakeshop, you smelt like bread and you had several loaves sitting on the kitchen table... and you didn't move away from me as I was doing what I am now, did you? Didn't you want me to stay? Didn't you want me in your bedchambers, when you led me there because your wife was out at the mayor's for her sewing circle with his wife, as your children played outside?"

Gabriel's eyes turned downcast, as Cain's hands grappled at his necktie. Cain leaned forward, tilting his head as he stepped at his heels clicked against the wood.

"Answer the question, Cain."

The statement was tired, and rhetoric.

"It doesn't matter, anyways." Cain mumbled under his breath, "It's just an experiment, how should I know what it will surmount to-?"

"Why would you do this? Cain, you are not God." 

"You are a Godly man, I know this." Cain said, trying to step away from him, "I know you sit in the chapel and bow your head to him and feel the lush velvet across the wool of the knees of your trousers... when you touch a cross, it does not smart your fingers. I am not God; you trust in God, you do not trust in me." 

"Just be aware of what you're doing." Gabriel said, "I would tell you not to be irrational, but that would do little good. It would be wasting my breath." 

"Don't, then." Cain chuckled, tucking his thumbs into his trousers, "Lord only knows how much breath you already waste on me." 

"Only because you insist on small-talk."

"I do not insist on small talk; I insist on bettering my knowledge of how to approach you." Cain said, "Observation... is everything, my darling saint, from the way a man fixes his hair to his stride to the way he speaks to his wife," 

"May I observe the stolen carcass, then?" Gabriel said, raising a brow, "What do you plan on doing with him?"

"At the moment it's only the stripped corpse. Muscles and veins, only the facial skin has been stitched back on," Cain said nervously, ringing his hands, "Packed in ice. I dug him up as soon as I returned from Denmark. He has been on ice for a week and a half, but now, I am cleaning his skin of mold and others, not enough of his was saved...,"

"How many others?" 

"I only know they are new bodies." Cain said, looking down at his shoes. They were soiled- he had not taken to polishing them, and the Germany mud was unforgiving. But he had no time to do anything, with that slab of a human being sitting in his laboratory. It was fragile work and time consuming; and extremely time sensitive. 

Gabriel pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead, "Good God. You should be rather glad that it is winter, and not midsummer." 

"Yes, I know." Cain said, tucking his hair back again, and sighed, "Do you plan on staying? Just for an hour or two, if you would consider me. 

"Is a cuppa' possible?" Gabriel asked.

"Yes, of course." Cain said. 

"Well, then, I must." 

Gabriel began to shrug off his overcoat, a grey and handsome thing made of wool, purchased by his brother, Michael Popov. He folded the coat over his arm and followed Cain to the drawing room. 

His family's estate, Cain had come here to his father's childhood home once he began attending the university. He had asked his father and mother tentatively if they would join him back in Germany, but after the 'accident', they understandably said no. This was much to Cain's relief. 

Mother had only written a few letters in the years he had been attending Ingolstadt, the only proof that the family remembered their eldest son. But Cain didn't mind it one bit- the further away from him they stayed, the better, especially with his newest project. 

Cain had managed to renovate the mansion half-way through limited funds, borrowed from Gabriel and sent by his mother, sealing up rooms that he did not need or hiring men to repair the antiquated furniture; the last time anyone had lived here was twenty years ago, and mold lingered in the damper rooms on the ground floor. 

But the drawing room was exquisite, an echo of what the house once was. Pink wallpaper coated the interior, the trim white and gold. It was his favorite room of those that he had worked on, and where he had hung all of his paintings- they were recreations, or recovered family portraits that he had taken from the decaying bedrooms. Cain one day dreamed of commissioning an artist who's name would be hailed above Botticelli's or Michelangelo's, and to hang that portrait above the mantel and it's crackling fire.

"And how is your wife?" Cain asked, as he draped himself on the love seat, red velvet and dark wood. He closed his eyes as he crossed his legs on the lush fabric, resting his hands on his abdomen. 

"I do not wish to speak of her, Cain." Gabriel said pointedly, as he hung his coat on the rack by the door of the room. 

Cain clicked his tongue, "Marital problems? She isn't with child, is she?"

"No," Gabriel snapped, twisting his hands nervously as they warmed with the fire, "Four children is plenty. I have three able boys to work the farmlands, and one girl to cook and clean." 

Cain smiled, relishing the sound of Gabriel's anger, "It's always amused me how detached from them you are. What a sticky situation! A homosexual married to a staunch, uptight woman." 

"Rida is a good woman. She deserved a man who would love her," Gabriel rubbed the back of his neck, and walked to the center of the room. Cain opened his arms to accept his lover, but Gabriel only stood before the fire and cupped his chin, "I understand her; she is a woman of the Lord and she is a good mother to our children. She is too predictable- I can tell by her breath what she thinks, whether I arrive home at a late hour or if I have bought her a goose for dinner... But you-,"

"But me?" Cain's thin brows jumped up, "But me, what?"

"We may be of the same sex, and they say that men understand men. I have never, ever understood you,"

"People say that's what makes me so intoxicating," Cain said, his tongue crafting the words of honey and strawberry wine, to make them drip from the cracks of the ceiling, "Thought-provoking, one could say, I suppose. I am no housewife, I wouldn't say," 

"Precisely," It came as a whisper, barely heard above the fire. 

"You could've avoided it," Cain said, drumming his fingers against his stomach, "It's your fault," 

"And how's that, Cain?" 

"Oh, well, it would've been quite easy if you would've just become an altar boy. By now, you could've been a priest in the Church," Cain opened his eyes and lolled his head to face Gabriel's knitted brow and the thumb still pinching his chin. Cain looked at Gabriel with raised brows and pursed lips, a beckoning look that also told Gabriel that he was completely in the wrong, somehow, and that he was too stupid to fix it. 

"I wasn't thinking of how I felt towards men when I was seven, thank you," Gabriel spat, "And I don't see you doing anything for the Church, so how did you swindle yourself out of marriage?" 

Cain sighed, leaning his arm across himself to open the drawer of his end table. Once opened, he stuck his hand inside and fumbled for his snuff box. His fingers finally curled around the cold metal box and he pulled it out; crafted of neglected silver, the beautiful yet simple box was smudged by fingerprints. His name had been engraved onto the top- C. Grant, in his elegant script. 

"I frighten women," Cain said, opening the tin with a click, "Not in the 'sexy' manner of strongmen or those who beat their wives- as you said, they're predictable. They will fight if they get drunk. They're animals, these German drunkards. No, I frighten women in the sense of mystery- they gossip about me, and speak of the darkness in my eyes when I cast glances towards them. Who would want to marry a man who took in stray dogs- even domestics, my God, they say!- and ripped them apart to study their insides! Who could bear to remain stable alongside such a sadistic murderer of beloved family pets, and who would even spare a thought of raising children under such a man. They call my house the Inferno and have never read Dante; they're absolute imbeciles, I can't see how you stand to kiss your heifer after each evening meal. I would have to burn my mouth," 

"Well, then, if only I could be a mad scientist," Gabriel said with a sigh. He headed towards the love seat where Cain lay finally, "If only someone had told me more than six years ago," 

"Forgive me; I did not know you until the wedding," Cain said, retracting his legs as he took a pinch of snuff and placed it delicately in the webbing between his index and thumb; he raised his hand to his nose and took his snuff, "Would you like some, my dear?"

Gabriel shook his head, looking quite ill, "And that cup of tea you invited me to have-?"

"Of course," Cain said, the tobacco still stinging his nostrils as he pushed himself up by his elbows. He leaned towards Gabriel and placed a hand on the man's shoulder. Gabriel turned his head to Cain, and was met by his mouth. The kiss was brief and flat, a surprise that only lasted for a handful of seconds. Cain pulled back and moved his hand to cup Gabriel's face. He patted it softly, his nose still close to the man's. 

"Come to the ball with me this evening, Cain," 

His eyes studied each and every plane of the man's face, every pore and wrinkle that had been stitched together in his thirty years. Gabriel was not perfect, and did not go without flaw. He was not like the corpse laying in the laboratory, the Vitruvian man found in soil.

"Of course,"


	2. 2: lips of ice on fevered skin

october 2, 1818

Perspiration clung to his forehead, sticking pieces of his black hair to it in the heat. He sweltered under the thin covers of the bedroom sheets, half-dried towels stuck to his exposed chest and arms. They were covered with a rash- scarlet fever, the doctor said- that burned his chest from the inside out. He poked his sternum when he could still move his arms, and could feel the fire and brimstone inside of him.

"Here, darling," His fiancée, Rose, said, walking in the room quickly, holding a basket of wet towels, "let me switch out those old ones for these... hopefully, it'll cause the swelling to go down."

"Thank you," Benny managed, as Rose eased onto the bed and set her woven basket beside her. She smiled at him, and patted his hand before taking to removing the half-dry towels from his skin.

"Do you need something to drink?" Rose asked, caressing his face as she threw the towel from his forehead into the pile accumulating at her feet. Her thumb touched his cheekbones gently, her eyes trained on him with all of the love that one could muster.

"Yes, please." His voice was raw, his throat stung and he could scarcely speak. Every word hurt.

"I'm sorry, I should've known-," Rose said, breaking away from his hand to lay the wet towel across his forehead. He sighed in little relief, closing his eyes as he folded his hands across his chest, "I don't know where my mind is...,"

"Your company is all I want for," Benny rasped, eyes rolling up to look at the space of wall above him, the wooden cross Rose had nailed into the painted walls, "and you have taken very good care of me."

"I just wish I could do more," Rose sighed, heaving her chest as she unrolled another towel over his forearms, "but it'll be all-right."

"Yes, it will be." Benny lied, but even then he could feel decay beginning from the marrow in his bones and the blood-flow slowing in his veins. But he couldn't tell his darling that; how would it make her feel, to see her fiancé dying before her? To know that the end was inevitably here, and that she could not protect him as she had done so often before? Benny sighed, "I should be up-and-going in a few days time, and then we will only have to wait until later this October to be wed."

Rose beamed, "Yes, I know."

"I want you to have everything you've ever yearned for," Benny said, more quietly as his throat throbbed, "I want you to have everything you deserve and more, my love. I will build you a cradle from cedar wood and it will rest in the corner packed with knitted blankets of wool and cotton; and we will have a child to accompany it, with his mother's eyes."

Rose smiled, and leaned forward to kiss him. She fumbled for his lips and rested her hand on his bare chest. Her small hands were damp from the sopping wet towels, and as her index traced along his hollow sternum, drawing lines of lighter flesh from freckle to freckle. Her lips were still soft and supple, compared to his dry, cracked lips. He felt bad kissing her; jagged rocks rubbed against flower petals. But it felt so wonderful- paradise, a cold compress against his skin cooking from the inside.

She pulled away and her eyes twinkled mischievously as she smiled, satisfied with the kiss. His hand came to wrap the one she had pressed to his sternum, and Rose met him for another kiss as he did. Attempting to raise his head, he was unable due to his hair stuck to the pillow by sweat on the back of his head.

"I love you," she murmured, littering kisses along the outline of his bottom lip, "I love you so much."

"You should stop kissing me," he said, softly, nudging her away by her chubby cheek.

"I don't want to."

"Rose, please," He said weakly, holding her hand, "I don't want you to get sick. Please."

"What kind of future wife would I be, if I didn't take care of you when you were sick?" Rose said softly, raising the hand to her lips, and kissed him there, "I can't leave you."

"Then don't," He said, voice cracking, "Please, my throat hurts so terribly-,"

"Oh, Christ!" Rose exclaimed, letting go of his hand, "I completely forgot, I'm so sorry- I can even hear it whistling! I'll be right back."

Benny nodded, watching her as she hopped from the bed and rushed out of the door. He could hear her quick and hard footsteps against the wooden floors of the house. He closed his eyes and touched the wet cloth on his head, praying that his fever would go down. He loved her, he loved her so much, and he had dreamed for so long to wed her and to hear tiny footfalls alongside hers through the hallways of this house.

He was soon greeted again by her pleasant face, although she had been stripped of her jovial expression. She placed the tea tray on the beside table and smoothed down her skirt, belonging to a yellow-colored dress with an empire waist.

"You look beautiful," he managed, and it felt like his throat was swelling closed.

"Thank you," Rose said, placing a hand on his shoulder momentarily, "Shh, shhh... I don't want you to strain yourself any more than you have to. Don't speak, please."

Benny nodded his head, as Rose dropped a sugar cube into the tea and stirred it. She then blew on it softly, "It shouldn't be too hot, you tell me. Here, darling. All yours."

"Than-,"

"Shh," Rose said, putting the cup in his hands.

Benny raised the teacup to his lips, the delicious steam filling his nostrils as he dipped his tongue in to feel the temperature of the liquid. It was fine, just as she had promised, and he drank it slowly.

"It has honey in it." She said, gazing at him wiu worry, "Is it alright?"

Benny nodded, and he wanted to thank her again. He knew that it would upset her if he spoke, so he didn't.

"There you go. You look better already." Rose sighed, "I'm going to hang laundry, is that alright?"

He nodded.

She rose, and then gave him a kiss on the forehead; he could scarcely feel the press of her lips through the wet cloth, but he let out a gust of a breath as she did.

"You try to get some rest, alright, my love?"

"I will." He spoke at last, reaching out to clutch her hand, a simpering gasp of words, "I love you."   
-  
october 17th, 1818

She still hadn't forgiven herself for what happened.

Of course, Rose Winchester knew that she couldn't have saved him; she knew that he could not take her own breath and continue to fill his lungs. She couldn't have done anything when she walked into his bedroom and found him in eternal slumber. She couldn't have done anything, even as the doctor arrived and held his limp wrists, as the undertakers carted him away and buried him quickly. It was Jewish tradition to do so, and before sundown his mother and sister and Rose had gathered around the casket and said their final goodbyes.

Rose hadn't wanted to leave, and she stayed standing there even as the gravediggers dumped their dirt over the body of her beloved. The gravestone had not yet been delivered, and she was afraid they would forget him.

She wished she could take flowers. Benny loved flowers, but that was Jewish custom too; no flowers during the funeral service or at the grave.

She chewed on her fingernails as she sat up in bed, the same sheets that he had died in. She couldn't wash them. They smelt like his cologne, and she almost hoped that the fever would penetrate her as well. Then, she could join him in paradise. Golden shores and crystal-blue water sounded much, much better than this trembling mortal ground.

And had she heard?

He was not even in the soil any longer, but someone had made off with the love of her life without a regard towards her. She clenched the blanket tighter to her body, blinking back tears. She was angry.

She was going to find him; she was going to get the person who had taken her lover's body and ensure that he would be thrown into a jail cell for the rest of his pathetic life. Her brain wandered on and on, pulling a string through the labyrinth of her mind as she jumped from conclusion to conclusion. It made her sick to consider all the whys of what had happened. She thought she had considered every possibility, as she sat on the bed surrounded by the broken off bits of her nails. 

Turning towards the wash basin, her eyes lingered on the flower petals littering the porcelain bowl. She closed her eyes, burning with tears as she reminisced on the day he had brought them home, before he had gotten sick. They had rotted alongside him, once beautiful blooming wildflowers and primroses; he had plucked them on his way home and delivered them as she stood from a sewing circle to answer the door. His smile had been so bright, unsuspecting as he gazed at his future bride. His textbooks were bound with twine as they were tucked under his arm, stooping to place a delicate kiss on her mouth. 

She found herself touching her lips as the tears rolled down her face. She missed his lips and the gentle words that had spilled from them, gentle reminders and coaxing, loving touches with fingers spun of cinnamon and gold. 

She forced the pillow away, and picking up her bed gown, she placed her feet on the lush Persian rug. Rose strode to the wash basin, snatching the mangled, drooping brown stems and crunching leaves and suffocated them. 

Rose Winchester massaged her cheeks, and turned to the armoire in order to select an outfit to wear to the cotillion that evening.


	3. dido's lament (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part one of a two part scene at the Winter Cotillion.  
> enjoy!  
> (also: excuse my very, very American language in this story ... I'm an English speaker, not a German one, and I certainly am not a German-speaking Regency period author. So if the slang is off, blame that.)

Cain was anxious when he arrived at the Winter Cotillion. He greeted Herr and Frau Winchester, grasping their pale hands in his gloved ones. He was pleasant, all smiles and apologies. Frau had turned her chin up slightly, her eyes following him as he exchanged meaningless conversation with her husband. He almost told them that their future son-in-law was in his care, that they had nothing to worry about with their wavering and tired expressions. 

But he couldn’t do that- it would spoil his plans. Frau Winchester would get the fainting sickness and Herr demand the body back- but Benjamin was not yet done! Cain would stammer as Herr Winchester’s doughy face molded itself into anger. 

He only wanted to shock them, to escape without the consequences of such a dangerous action that he had coveted so. He could not have one without the other. What was now only corpse would most likely never see the daylight as he flourished under Cain’s caring hand. No, no, that would be far too treacherous. He would really be treading unholy ground then.

Instead, he bid them goodbye and a good evening, and went about his search for Gabriel Popov. 

The sweet lull of a deep bass, weaving amongst the orchestra of stringed instruments immediately struck him as he entered the doors. One always heard their instrument, their artform amongst the others. The violin, his darling instrument, rose so sweetly through the air of the platform, all through the song the herald angels played and an ample woman from Berlin sang. 

May my wrongs create no trouble  
No trouble in thy breast  
Remember me,   
Remember me, 

The song pierced him, struck by the thorn of the blackberry brambles where he had kept his voice so quiet as he watched him in the meadow. A brown hand held out, filled with bread crumbs and gathered seeds; a common cuckoo swooping down before all others, head cocked as he stared at the eight year old boy suspiciously. Why would a biped trust one so featherless? So large? He plucked the seeds from Benjamin’s hand, and Cain was there to watch, ten years old then. It was one of the sullen and short visits to the German town to see his then-living grandparents, with his then-living brother, and the first of which Benjamin was there. 

Benjamin still spoke Turkish to the birds all those years ago, his tongue stumbling along in German. It was too unfamiliar, his native tongue. He did not see the boy hiding amongst the bushes, observing him the same way the cuckoo had done. 

The song was unpleasant to his ears, and made him feel unwelcome. His palms began to sweat in their silk encasing, and he wished he could stand out in the chill of the winter to calm himself until that horrible, lovely voice ceased the song of a woman who thrusted a sword into her bosom. 

Where the hell was a coat rack? He was perspiring intensely, but it wasn’t with fever. Where the everloving fuck was Gabriel Popov? Cain’s hands fidgeted at his sides, and he decided to busy them by unbuttoning his greatcoat. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Cain said, to a close-by man smoking a cigar, “Where is the mud room, if you would?”

The cigar man pointed to him the direction, his hands clasped over that of a very frail looking madame. She was very mouse-like, looking at Cain over a sloped nose with alarmed eyes. He cast a smile towards her, lips curled as he thanked the man with the cigar. The lady looked away, the heaving of her chest making the brown ringlets by her ears swing like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. 

Cain glided across the ballroom, cutting through spaced-apart couples and old ladies speaking in circles whilst fanning themselves, whispering wrinkled lips smeared with red lipstick in an attempt to resurrect the construct of a youthful complexion. His eyes skimmed the ballroom for Gabriel, but only found blond-haired men and women fanning themselves. 

“Why, if it isn’t the heir to the Grant for-tune! How are you?” 

Cain turned on his heel immediately, alarmed by the voice. It was of no worry, not to him at least. It was Gabriel mocking him, looking rather pleased with his wife, Rida, on his arm. The children were left at home- most likely with Gabriel’s brutish mother-in-law.

“Oh, it’s you,” Cain wrinkled his nose and raised a brow. He was relieved, but he kept it to himself, “Good evening, Herr Popov,”

“Nice to see you made it out of that old mansion, hm, Herr Grant?” Cain’s eyes followed to where Rida tugged at Gabriel’s sleeve, while her other hand wrapped firmly around his lifted wrist. 

“Mm,” Cain managed, averting his eyes back to Gabriel’s face, “Yes, well, I’m trying to find the mudroom. Accompany me, won’t you, and we can indulge in gentlemanly conversation?” 

“You don’t mind, do you, dear?” Gabriel said, his voice numb and uncaring as it approached his wife tentatively. He patted her arm awkwardly, and Cain let a snort escape him as his mind wandered to lewd thoughts of their intimacy. 

Rida shot a glare in Cain’s direction and pointed her nose heavenward. She released her grip upon her husband, “Of course I don’t mind. I’ll be sending my wishes to the Winchesters while you talk about the king,” She began to fan her neck. 

“Don’t be like that, Rida-,” Gabriel began, but she parted in a ripple of plum fabric before he could continue. She lifted her Sabbath’s best and walked towards the center of the ballroom towards a group of women her age. Gabriel’s shoulders slumped as he turned to watch his wife leave.

It relieved Cain that he didn’t have to deal with the petty and domestic dramas of the female sex. He wasn’t sure why Gabriel didn’t have more silver at his temples, whether it be by that miststück or his little saumensch and saukerls.

“Let’s go, then,” Gabriel said, voice lowering as he turned back to Cain, “What do you want to talk to me about, without Rida?” 

Cain cocked his head and raised his brows, a smile easing onto his face, “She annoys me,” 

Gabriel rolled his eyes and began to walk in the direction of the mudroom, adjusting his cravat, “Of course, what more could I expect from the little prince?”

 

“It’s for medical reasons,” Cain chirped, fanning himself with his hand as he caught up to Gabriel, “She makes my blood absolutely boil! A minute with her is an eternity in the infernal regions-!” 

“Oh, hush. You should’ve gone into Shakespearean literature in schooling, with your flare for over-dramatization,” Gabriel said, “And look what we’ve ended up with. A mad scientist,” 

“It’s a joke, darling, if you would take one,” Cain said, flipping the head of his fox fur behind him. He had kept the furs even as he removed his other outer layers, because he was so proud of it. He had shot it as a boy, with his father’s rifle in Denmark. 

“It was an accident… a simple mistake,” 

“Well, you’re a dandy,” Gabriel said, clearing his voice as his joking demeanor was replaced by a solemn one. He sounded annoyed. 

“You would know,” 

Gabriel elbowed him in the ribs, his lips pinched. Cain wrinkled his nose- what had he done for him to be spiteful all of the sudden?

The hunter set his aim on the trembling animal, calling out for its mother. It was too weak, it was too small- it was quick, but the hunter was quicker. It thrashed, an injury to its head already dampening and coloring what once was gold into a bruised and dark carmine. 

Cain entered the mudroom laughing, where other men had stacked their own overcoats. Cain checked the tag to double-check his signature there, and was relieved to see his cursive script under the embroidery of the shopmaker. He wouldn’t have anyone pick it up by accident or reclaim the thing- it wasn’t custom by any means, but was tailored to him and expensive. He scowled immediately at the only other man in the mudroom, as he was hoping scarcely for some privacy with his lover. 

The man did not seem to notice, and continued to rid his shoes of mud and snow. 

His chest rose and fell calmly as he stood above the trembling thing, bringing his sight to his eye. Snow stuck to the tip of its snout, panting as its eyes squeezed shut. The blood stained the virgin linen of the Danes and the leather toe of his hunting boot. 

Cain squinted his eyes, snowflakes caught in his eyelashes. He was so much younger then. 

“Hold still,” The words escaped him barely, accompanied by the fog. He could hear ribs cracking beneath the weight of him, “Just hold still, darling, it’ll all be over soon,” 

A strangled breath, “Cain, please,” it begged him. 

He swallowed and he was suddenly deaf of the creature’s pleas; he aimed and fired. The gunshot rang out and he barely missed his own foot as he shot the docile thing in the head. It was dead by one bullet, after being clobbered. 

“How is it all going?”

Cain rose his eyes to Gabriel, swathed in the memory, “How is what going?”

“The experiment,” Gabriel’s voice treaded lightly, “Did you work anymore, after my leaving?”

Cain stepped back and wiped his brow, having accumulated sweat there. He dropped his rifle at the feet of the creature, backing away as his ears rang with the gunshot. 

“I had not the time. After tea, I immediately began to look for something appropriate to wear- I hadn’t previous anticipated on coming, before your invitation. I’m enormously grateful, by the way.” Cain said, and smoothed down his outfit. He always took care in his appearance- even though the word daffy made him cringe- and had put together an outfit that he considered extremely fashionable; largely navy and royal blue, with blonde cotton breeches and polished boots. 

“Of course you are.” Gabriel said, “Come along, now. They should be serving the food soon, I know you wouldn’t want to miss it,” 

“Gluttony is my only sin,” Cain said, touching his forehead, heart, and then his shoulders. 

“Sure it is,” A hint of a smile surfaced on the corners of Gabriel’s lips. 

He fled, the coward he was, his tongue already in the shape of the lie he had concocted over the passing weeks. 

They returned to the ballroom, but Cain’s memory constantly replayed that arduous journey to the back porch. The prayers whispered under his still rang clearly in his conscious, although he did not feel guilty and the prayers he prayed were empty promises to call back to. So his tongue would not slip. So he could keep his story straight. 

“What are they serving?” Cain asked, aware already that he would most likely not pay attention to Gabriel’s response. He tried to tug his mind away, either to the gravelled tone or the song being played on the piano- ah, of course! Beethoven's Sonata Number 14, “Moonlight”. A favorite of anyone, scholarly when it came to music or not. He attempted to let his mind wander to the melody of the music, drumming his fingers against his thigh to the tune. He had always preferred Beethoven to any other composer, and the Germans agreed with him. 

An explanation, that’s all it was. An accident. He had thought their precious, golden-haired baby boy, only thirteen, was a graceful deer. 

That was all it was. A hunting accident. His eyes swathed by the sun’s reflection across that bright, bright snow. He willed his eyes to water, and wiped the smile from his face as he exited the forest behind his parents estate and rushed to the back door of the home. 

“-Cain, are you listening?”

 

“No, apologies,” Cain apologized, jaw slack, “I need something to drink,” 

“Are you alright?”

“I-,” Cain paused, his eyes settling on a figure in the distance.


End file.
